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  “But Blackford—”

  “He is merely a human being. He does not own us. We are not his subjects.”

  “I cannot bear the thought of losing you, Ethan.” Low. Determined. “A life without you—”

  “It shallna happen.” His voice filled with Scottish heather and gorse. “I canna part from you. Love alters not . . . even to the edge of doom . . . remember that, m‘aingeal.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “We live in more enlightened times where a man might make his way. I have a cousin in Boston—”

  “In America?”

  “Precisely. It is a young country, full of possibility. A good place to start anew.”

  “But how? Surely you would need some capital—”

  “My cousin . . . he has a good heart. He will help, though I would be poor until I could establish my practice as a doctor.” Ethan tracing the shadowy line of her jaw with his thumb. “A man in that situation would be needing a wife, lass.”

  Caro sucked in a sharp breath. “But your mother? Your sister? How could we leave them to Blackford’s displeasure?”

  “Where there is a will, there is a way. I have a small sum set aside for now. Enough to get us to America. It may take time, but I will send for my mother and sister as soon as I gather the funds—”

  “No.” Caro placed a gloved finger over his lips. “I could not bear it if anything happened to them.”

  Ethan’s heart plummeted.

  “You will not away with me then, lass?”

  Caro laughed, soft as the rain on the pavement behind them. “You misunderstand me, love. I will go anywhere with you. But I want your entire happiness, and you will not be happy if your mother and sister are left to suffer—”

  “They willna suffer.” His voice grew husky, deepening his burr. “I will write to an uncle in Glasgow—”

  “No need to call upon so many favors. The modello is mine—”

  “Michelangelo’s drawing?”

  “Yes. Let us sell it. Use the money to start our life anew.”

  “I could not ask that of you. It is yours—”

  “What does a mere piece of paper matter in comparison to life with an honorable man?”

  “Caro—”

  “I will do whatever I must to be with you, Ethan.”

  “But surely there is no need to part with your original. It was a gift from your uncle. What about your most recent copy, the one on the old vellum? Such a fine drawing would command a tidy sum too.”

  “Perhaps. We will take both and sell them when we arrive in Boston.” She pressed a soothing hand to his chest. “You are not hearing me, Ethan. Nothing matters more to me than you.”

  He groaned at her admission, drawing her even closer. “You humble me, lass. I feel inadequate and, yet, somehow more for your trust in me.”

  He skimmed his nose along her cheek, following the line of her jaw down to her mouth.

  “You will always be my own.” She breathed a puff of air against his lips. “Now and forever.”

  As surely as if it were noonday, sunshine blazed through him. Brilliantly blinding.

  It was more than any man could resist.

  His arms pulled her closer. He lowered his head and brushed her lips softly with his. Asking but not taking.

  Caro nearly whimpered. Ethan’s mouth swept over hers, teasing, pleading—gentle intoxication.

  After months of torture, to finally be in his arms. To taste the warmth of him.

  With a sigh, she raised on her tiptoes, covering the last half inch. Claiming him.

  His arms tightened around her waist. A hand moving up her back. His lips devoured.

  Every last bone in her body melted into the pavement.

  And, yet, she had somehow never felt so jarringly alive.

  “My love . . . mo chridhe.” Ethan murmured between each kiss. “I am truly yours . . .”

  She wrapped her hands around his neck, arms trembling.

  Did he understand the power of his words?

  The illegitimate daughter of a long-dead mother. The grandchild of royal blood, seen only as a pawn to be passed around. Wanted . . . and yet so obviously not.

  More thing than person.

  But with this man . . . that sense of homecoming. Belonging. Of finally finding the other half of herself that she had never understood was missing.

  Did he taste her tears?

  She kissed him with all the fervor in her heart. Heedless of the rain falling around them.

  Ethan pulled back, his lips resting against hers.

  “Marry me then, m‘aingeal?”

  “Yes. Most definitely, yes!”

  “’Tisn’t much of a proposal—”

  “It is perfect.”

  Ethan kissed her again. More than heat and hunger.

  His lips were a promise. A beginning. A future.

  Caro laughed, happiness bubbling through her. “Oh, my love. All will be well.”

  “We will find some parish priest to marry us. It will not be much of a wedding, I fear—”

  “I do not care. I simply wish to be with you, my love. We will run away, sell what we can, send for your mother and sister and see ourselves settled in Boston. We will make a new life for ourselves, far from those who would use us as puppets—”

  “When? When shall we leave? Our time is short.”

  Caro rested her head against his chest. “Saturday evening. Lady Albany throws her annual musicale—”

  “Heavens! Surely not with actual seating?”

  “Lady Albany owns chairs. She simply chooses not to use them.”

  “Blackford will attend.”

  “Yes, which means it will be hours before anyone notices my absence.”

  “And I will be packed off on my way to Pisa.”

  A beat.

  “I will wait for you outside Lady Albany’s palazzo—”

  “No, Ethan, it is far too dangerous. With so many guests coming and going . . . you will be seen.”

  “Caro, I must ensure your safety.”

  “If I am noticed around the palazzo, others will assume I am assisting Lady Albany with her guests.”

  “But—”

  “I can meet you. I came tonight, did I not?”

  His shoulders slumped in agreement. “Where then?”

  She thought for a moment. “We should meet where we gathered for the Duke’s picnic two weeks ago. The old monastery outside the city gates. You can wait for me there without being seen.”

  Another long pause.

  “Very well. It is agreed.” He nodded. “Can you make your way?”

  “Yes. I will be there waiting, my love.”

  “I fear Blackford will not release his claim so easily.”

  Caro wrapped her arms around his neck. “He does not truly care for me. As I have said, I am little more than a prize to be won. He will let us go.”

  “I trust your intuition.” Ethan pecked her lips.

  On a happy sigh, Caro raised on tiptoe and demanded another kiss, giving herself over to the moment. The thrill of his closeness, the power in his arms surrounding her.

  Love. Happiness. Him.

  At last . . . at long last, she was . . . home.

  Twenty-Six

  Claire

  I blinked, reeling at the sudden bright sunlight, the blare of modern noise.

  The world righted itself. This odd warping of reality, where I literally stretched and became taller. Not quite so short in comparison to Dante. My body morphing back into Claire.

  But Caro’s emotions clung, thrumming through me.

  Dante sheltered me against the wooden door of the church, hiding me from the street with his body. An exact mirror of our positions in the past, my hands on his chest, his arms around my waist. His heart pounded underneath my palms.

  At least, I think it was his heart I felt.

  I made the enormous mistake of lifting my eyes to his.

  Chocolatey warm with flecks of green. Plaid eye
s like Ethan. Intense . . . no, intent. His gaze flicked to my mouth.

  The whistles and jeers of the teenagers passing behind his back faded. Everything receded.

  “Madonna mia, what you do to me,” Dante whispered, head dipping down.

  He slanted forward, pulling me even more firmly against him.

  My blood pressure spiked.

  No. Too soon!

  Reflexively, I pulled back. Not that I had more than three inches of room to go.

  “I’m not Caro, Ethan . . . I mean, Dante . . .” I winced, shutting my mouth with a click. I pushed against his chest.

  Dante instantly froze. Lifted his hands off and took a small step back. Giving me space but keeping his enormous body between me and the street. Shielding. Protecting.

  I instantly felt the loss of him. His warmth. Security. Most of me wanted to pull him back into my arms.

  But that accursed fear . . .

  He stared. Eyes purposeful.

  The air between us crackled, saturated with energy.

  “I know exactly who you are, Claire Raythorn.” His deep bass vibrated through me. “You’re thinking I’m channeling Ethan right now. That my emotions are lingering from him, transferring from Caro to Claire.”

  Damn him and his mind-reading.

  Dante canted forward. Respectful. Careful not to crowd me. But fierce. Focused. His eyes locked with mine.

  “That. Is. Not. True.” Words low. Vehement.

  I sucked in a stuttering breath.

  “I’m sorry, Dante,” I whispered. “It’s a big step to go from saying, ‘Hey, I’m going to trust you,’ to ‘Let’s get the party started—’”

  “I do love Pink.” He chuckled, a low rumble of air thrumming through us both. “Please don’t apologize, cara mia. I want to move at your pace.”

  I reached for him then, palms outstretched. Helpless not to. Almost pleading.

  With a quick smile, Dante’s arms swept around me, pulling me to him. Gentle. Kind.

  He drew in a deep breath, his nose burrowed into the hair above my ear.

  My arms wrapped around his shoulders, reveling in the sheer size and power of him. But tension threaded my limbs. My heart a wild bird.

  How could I want something so badly and yet be so afraid at the same time?

  “Is this okay? Me holding you?” he asked, a soft breath of air.

  Okay? It was heaven.

  I nodded. Wordless.

  He lifted his hand to cup the opposite side of my head, cradling my cheek against his. Tender.

  “Good. Then I will just hold you. Breathe you in. When you’re ready for more, you’ll let me know.”

  He nuzzled that space between my neck and earlobe, gently brushing his lips against my skin. Goosebumps skittered down my spine.

  I forced my body to relax. To bring him that much closer. I could still sense panic fluttering around my edges, like a tiger waiting to pounce.

  I swallowed. I could do this.

  I could open up, just a little bit.

  Caro had loved this man . . . her emotions still swirled through me. The joy of finally claiming what she yearned for most.

  I ached to be her . . . to simply be. To know I held his heart, without doubt, without worry.

  Dante sighed. A deep, contented sound. “I adore you. You. Claire. The person you are in this life.” The man really did read minds. “I love how you bite your lower lip when you’re emotional, just like you are right now.”

  I nudged my lip out of my mouth.

  “I love the dimple that pops below your right eye when you give a genuine smile, like a punctuation mark on your upper cheek. I admire how you face adversity with your chin lifted and jaw defiant—”

  I sucked my lower lip back between my teeth. Who was I kidding?

  This man was determined to reduce my walls to rubble.

  I needed this. I needed him. I had made my decision to trust and, dammit, I was going to run with it.

  I shifted and wrapped a hand around the back of his head, holding him close.

  “Mmmm,” he breathed into my hair.

  And nothing more.

  Dante just . . . held me, true to his word.

  My nose buried in his neck, my cheek pressed against his shoulder. Held me until our heartbeats slowed. Until I relaxed entirely against him, the warmth of his huge body surrounding me. Draining all panic, that fight-or-flight reflex.

  He was incredible cuddly.

  My hungry soul lapped up his comfort. When had previous boyfriends simply held me without expecting more in return? Had any ever offered me a place of refuge? Seeing me not as a thing to be possessed and used, but a friend to be treasured and respected?

  Maybe I was more Caro than I realized . . .

  Peace washed through me. An ache for this amazing man who would always be my own personal battering ram. Destroying anything that tried to hurt me, sheltering me.

  Who knows how long we would have stood there, huddled against the door . . .

  “Excuse me? Is this the church of Dante and Beatrice?” A very American voice asked behind us.

  Sigh.

  Dante pulled back, giving me a wry smile. And then turned to the elderly couple staring at us, tourist map in one hand, half-eaten gelato in the other.

  Dante charmed them, introducing himself, asking questions.

  The man was smooth. That I could never deny.

  Oiled snake charm—a more bitter me would have called it.

  But I took him at face value now. He was just a genuinely nice guy. Kind. A bit of a romantic at heart.

  He gave them a solid run-down on the history of the church. (Early eleventh century. Standard Roman basilica construction. One of the oldest churches in Florence.) And then made several excellent recommendations for dinner. Smiling. Looking utterly delectable in his tight t-shirt and battered jeans.

  Dante wrapped his fingers around mine as we waved goodbye to them. (Jane and Bob. Des Moines. Ten grandkids. Love bingo.)

  Hand-in-hand, we strolled up Via del Corso toward Piazza della Republica. I found myself leaning into him as we walked. The comfortable closeness of good friends or long-time lovers.

  We were neither and yet . . .

  The crowds swirled around us. That ever-present prickly sensation of being watched skittered down my spine.

  Would that feeling just stop already? I was so done with the paranoia. So tired of resisting the urge to constantly look over my shoulder.

  I snuggled closer to Dante, squeezing his hand, wrapping my free hand around his elbow.

  He looked surprised, clearly not expecting me to initiate any kind of physical closeness. But being near him felt so warm and safe—

  The entirety of Ethan and Caro’s conversation finally caught up to me.

  “Wait!” I pulled Dante to a stop. “The vellum!”

  “That’s right.” He pulled me out of the stream of foot traffic, against a stuccoed wall. “The Colonel’s copy of the sketch—”

  “—probably isn’t the original Michelangelo,” I finished.

  “That’s a serious shame. The poor Colonel.”

  “Yeah.” I pursed my lips and sighed. “It was too good to be true. Caro distinctly described the original as being on paper. And, again, in her mind’s eye, the modello was done in silverpoint. Not chalk.”

  “And Ethan described Caro’s drawing as being on old vellum. But why?”

  I pondered it. “I got the impression that the vellum came from her great-uncle.”

  “Henry Stuart? The Catholic cardinal?”

  “Yeah. I just got a sense that he had given it to her to use for her sketching.”

  “Right.” Dante nodded. “As a cardinal in the Vatican, finding old pieces of vellum probably wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “Exactly. And even back then, copying a Michelangelo onto antique vellum would have been vintagey-fun.”

  We moved back onto the street, holding hands again.

  “So now what?” I asked.
“We still don’t know how the damage was done to the Colonel’s drawing.”

  “Yeah. And despite Caro’s words, I still wonder about the exact origins of the Colonel’s sketch.”

  “Do you know where Ethan and Caro were going to meet?” I asked, snuggling my shoulder into his side again. “I saw the place in Caro’s mind, but I didn’t recognize it. Just tall walls overgrown with ivy and lots of trees.”

  “I got a sense of a cloister and a tower from Ethan. A large building set on a hill outside of Florence proper. I’m pretty sure it was San Miniato al Monte—”

  “The ancient church above Piazzale Michelangelo?”

  “Exactly. It’s part of an old monastery complex.”

  We skirted around a bunch of milling Indian tourists, summery in their bright saris.

  “So, uhm, are we going to go?” I asked.

  “Show up there, take some video and see if Ethan makes an appearance?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stopped, looking down at me. “I’m game if you are. I know the regressions worry you.”

  I shrugged. “They do, but nothing bad has happened so far. Apparently, not every regression involves death and mayhem. Besides, I want to hear Ethan say those words that Branwell overheard.”

  “You’re so sure that it was Ethan?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Who knows. There’s no guarantee those words even happened in Ethan’s lifetime.”

  “True, but we do know the charred damage occurred around then.”

  “Well, regardless, I’m all in.” Dante pulled me closer. “I’m desperate to know where that Michelangelo ended up.”

  “And I want to see Ethan and Caro get their happily-ever-after.”

  “Speaking of which . . .”

  Dante stopped in front of a gelateria, dragging me inside.

  I stared at glittering row after row of mounded, shiny gelato. Fruit and chocolate and candy on top announcing the flavor if you didn’t understand the Italian written on small tags stuck into each tray.

  He wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulled me back against his chest and rested his chin on my shoulder. Like he was helplessly unable to control the impulse to touch me, to have me as close as possible.

  I can’t say I disliked it.

  We contemplated the wealth of ice cream before us.